


Only the Realest Remain

by inquilines



Category: Django Unchained (2012)
Genre: Cabin Fic, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fix-It, Minor Character Death, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Oral Sex, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 09:53:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquilines/pseuds/inquilines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the evenings, she sits beside Schultz by the fire and they speak German together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only the Realest Remain

**Author's Note:**

> For Porn Battle XIV: cabin, fix-it, folklore, freedom, furs, hunters, snowing, sunlight, and teach.

In the evenings, she sits beside Schultz by the fire and they speak German together. Broomhilda remembers the old tales that her mistress used to tell her.

“Rattenfänger von Hameln,” she begins. This is the one she remembers the most. There was a friend of hers, a fellow house slave, who’d she recalled the story to in Candyland. It was not a comforting story, but Ada had listened anyway, burrowing her face to Broomhilda’s chest as she whispered about the town’s children being led away, disappearing, never to be seen again.

Ada’s sobs had subsided when Broomhilda finished. “You tell good stories,” she had said, curling her fingers in Broomhilda’s tangled hair. “Thank you.” Ada had two sons: Noah and Jeremiah, sold earlier that day.

Broomhilda wonders what happened to Ada, after they burned the plantation down. Hopefully she ran away with the other Candyland slaves. Made her way North, following that star.

“Your eyes are sad, m’dear,” Schultz says, softly, and he places his hand to her cheek. “Was that you? As a child, that is.”

Broomhilda slips back to English, following his cue. “It was all of us. But I was fortunate. I met Django after my mistress sold me.” She smiles at him, because she’s happy now; she’s the happiest she’s ever been. Schultz’s thumb traces a star on her cheek, and then he pulls away.

At the sound of his name, Django looks up from over the gun he is cleaning. “Are you two done now?” he say, recognizing their break in language. “You Germanophiles are always leaving me out of your talks, you know.”

Broomhilda laughs. Django’s attempted to learn, but he doesn’t quite have the breadth or depth that they do. He’s caught on to short phrases, but he can’t keep up with Broomhilda and Schultz’s faster, longer conversations.

Schultz says, “Yes, we’re done.” He feeds a branch into the fire, coaxing the flames to grow, and Broomhilda can feel the heat radiating off of it. “It’s best that we sleep now, actually. We’re going hunting tomorrow.” He nods to himself.

“Good night, Herr Doktor,” Broomhilda murmurs, shifting the blanket and the warm furs over them both, her head falling to his shoulders. 

“Thank you for your story,” Schultz says.

“Tell me it next time. In English,” Django adds, and he joins them under the blankets, shifting his hat over his eyes. He reaches for Broomhilda’s hand, and their fingers squeeze together.

The North Star is bright above them. Broomhilda lulls herself to sleep by counting the stars beside it: one, two, three, four; eins, zwei, drei, vier.

#

They go hunting for the faces on the Wanted posters the next day. Broomhilda fingers the revolver secreted in her shawl, because Django’s taught her a few tricks, and she wants to work at his side. Her fingers shake over the trigger, but Django holds his hand to her waist, steady, and Broomhilda takes the shot.

“Beautiful, Fräulein,” Schultz says, helping her down from the hilltop, giving her his arm.

Django shoots the last man, who crumples to the ground, blood pouring down his face. Django tastes like sweat when Broomhilda kisses him; Schultz tastes of something bitter, the coffee he had drank earlier that morning. When they kiss each other -- short, sharp, hesitant -- Django barks a chuckle into Schultz’s mustache, and Broomhilda grins.

And this is the next three years of their lives. They ride across the country and take lives, earn money, and leave blood all over each other when they fuck. Django’s German gets better; Schultz flushes with pride when he interrupts a conversation between he and Broomhilda, interjecting with a snide comment.

Three years -- and then the war.

#

They ride to Canada, and settle in a small cabin. It’s pretty damn isolated excepting a nearby town where they occasionally drop by for supplies.

It’s snowing outside, and Broomhilda misses America, the sunset on her hair and out in the open air beside a campfire.

Django shares a cup of coffee with her. “It’s snowing really hard out there. Goddamned Canada, yeah?”

“It’s cold,” she agrees, tightening the fur blankets around them both, twisting their legs together. “I don’t miss my gun,” she adds, quietly.

“We’ll go back after the war,” Django says. “Find a place out west, maybe.”

Broomhilda’s breath catches: hope and fear and longing, all at once. “Maybe,” she says. She takes a sip from the coffee cup.

The couch dips down when Schultz joins them. “Cozy under there, m’dears?” he asks, amused. His eyes are bright and joyful, twinkling, and he looks so very young in his sleeping clothes, his gun no longer at his hip.

“C’mere,” Django says with a wave of his hand.

Schultz comes over, and in the next minute, he’s pressing his mouth over Django’s, murmuring a nonsensical mix of German and English, reaching to take off Django’s shirt. He strokes the nubs of Django’s nipples, and Django lets out a heavy breath; Broomhilda _watches_ , her cunt warm with want.

“Jesus, King,” Django murmurs, his eyes heavy-lidded. “Hilda, you c’mere now, babe.”

She twists a smile in his direction. “All right.” But she ignores him in favor of Schultz, her tongue swiping over the line of Schultz’s teeth, his hands at the curve of her ass, slow and gentle.

“Fräulein,” Schultz calls her. “What next, hmm?”

“Let’s make him come,” she says slyly, motioning to Django. “Look at him now. I want to make him beg.”

“So we shall,” Schultz says, and he’s back to Django’s nipples, placing one bite, two bites, three bites, back and forth. “Is that good?”

Django lets out a low growling sound of pleasure; his body is shaking. Broomhilda lowers herself down to his pants, her mouth to the shape of his rising cock, and she mouths at it, tasting the fabric and the almost-taste of his skin.

They’re both working at him, teasing, and Broomhilda sighs into Django’s pants, feeling him shift against her mouth.

“I want to come,” Django gasps. “Let me -- _please._ Babe, babe, come on.”

Broomhilda unbuckles Django’s pants and slides his underwear down to his knees, his cock now visible. She kisses the tip, and as she does so, Schultz nips the side of Django’s throat, and he’s heaving desperate breaths, pleading for release. Broomhilda continues to kiss the length of his dick, her tongue snaking out briefly to taste him, and he groans.

“More like that. Please,” Django says, and Broomhilda finally takes him in her mouth, her tongue folding against his skin, caressing and licking without pause.

And then: he comes, and Broomhilda swallows as his cock drips white into her lips.

Schultz laughs in delight when Django’s climaxed, saying, “There you go, m’dear.” He places a final kiss on Django’s throat, and Broomhilda pulls Schultz towards her, letting him taste Django’s come.

They curl up against each other under the fur blankets. Django’s head is buried in Broomhilda’s lap and Schultz has his hand furled in Django’s sleeve, rubbing at his arm. It’s stopped snowing outside.

Through the window, Broomhilda can see the sun starting to set.


End file.
